


Stranger in the Hall

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-17
Updated: 2007-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-12 05:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13540356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: Sometimes things we'd never do in real life are our best fantasies.





	Stranger in the Hall

**Author's Note:**

> None of value.
> 
> Disclaimer: Helen Fielding would kick my ass if she ever got hold of me.

It's not anything she'd ever, _ever_ do.

But it's a fantasy she's had for a while, and the way he stands on her front stoop, dressed in a tuxedo under his long black winter coat, highlighted in cool tones in the dim of the night by a nearby sign, his dark eyes regarding her with the love he's just proclaimed, brings it fresh to mind.

She wants to pretend he's a stranger, and she wants him all the more for it.

Not only have they just made up after a fight, but she's given him a key, so a makeup shag is definitely on the horizon already, of that there's no doubt. She looks at him through her lashes with a devilish smile and steps back into the building; unsurprisingly, he follows her in. She's still all dressed up in a fancy gold gown that's hard to walk in, still wearing the coat that she never removed from when they were out before and had argued, didn't bother to even slip her shoes back on. The minute the building door shuts behind him she reaches up and kisses him, fastening her fingers into his lapels and pulling him further in with her until she's in the back corner under the stairs where the light bulb's been burned out for ages.

She releases one of his lapels, runs her hand down along the front of his suit and over his fly, fingers pressing into the nascent firmness growing there. He jerks his head back and whispers her name, places ineffectual hands on her upper arms, but she hooks her elbow around his neck as if to prevent his escape and reclaims his mouth as she backs him up against the wall, her knee anchored between his legs. She doesn't stop, not with her lips, teeth and tongue, and certainly not with her hand as she coaxes him until he's straining against his trousers.

"Not here," she hears his strangled voice say, his hands moving up to her shoulders; "Upstairs." She informs him in a barely audible voice that she doesn't bring strange men up to her flat, that right here would have to do. He doesn't reply or make any further show of protest, and taking his silence as acquiescence she pulls the zipper down, slips her fingers in and draws him out, stroking lightly, then with greater vigour. A small moan escapes his throat, and he places his hands against the wall palms down. She can hear the quiet thud of his head as it falls back. His breath is erratic and he tries to say her name but he can't get past the first letter.

Unexpectedly, he pushes himself forward. She cannot help but cease her ministrations as he draws close to her and kisses her again, then moves his mouth to her jaw, her earlobe, her neck. His hands slide across the satiny fabric covering her breasts, under her coat around the smooth plane of her ribs and back. He presses her to him, his fingers insistent upon her rear before he lets go, and she realises that the flat surface behind her all of a sudden is the wall he'd just been grasping for support; he's completely turned them around. He leans heavily into her; feeling him so hard against her, she curses the length of the dress, the snugness of its fit, and the support slip.

He is a quick thinker, though, and good at adapting. Lithe as a tiger he dips down and grabs the lower hem of her dress, tugging it up until it's all above her waist. He fumbles at the edge of the girdle but it too lifts up with only a slight bit of effort. The lacy pants he pushes down over her hips; it's easy enough for her to step out of them.

He pushes her back to the wall again there in the deepest shadow under the stairs and kisses her ravenously. He has to bend down slightly to accommodate the height difference; his hands play along the soft skin of her hip, trailing forward to brush against her abdomen as he grazes the skin of her throat with his teeth, then bites gently before kissing her again. Her knees nearly give way as he curls his fingers between her legs, gliding easily over the nub of charged nerves there. His maddening caress makes stars dance behind her eyes. She veritably whimpers when his fingers retreat, but it's short-lived because he immediately grabs her backside and lifts her up. Automatically she wraps her legs around his waist and he quickly enters her; she catches her breath, and before she can cry out he's covered her mouth again with his own. Her heels dig firmly into the backs of his thighs not unlike like a rider urging a horse to go faster, and similarly it works on him; he thrusts with increasing power and rapidity. She can only hear soft _Ohs_ and gasps for air, and it's all very rhythmic and mesmerizing, as if the sounds are coming from somewhere else but from him and her. She spirals closer and closer to climax, and when his head drops back and he catches his lower lip between his teeth, eyes closed beneath intensely focused brows, she knows he's about to come. She feels his buttocks tense beneath her calves, and she digs her fingers into the cords of his back as he trembles with release. She quickly and eagerly follows him.

All of this within the circle of his overcoat.

His hands return to her arse to hold her gently and he drops his head close to hers once more. She can feel his hot, humid breath along her cheek before he kisses her again, this time far more tenderly. They stand there quietly for what feels like an eternity. Slowly her legs release their grasp on his waist as he begins to lower her, parting her from him. Her feet unsteadily meet the floor. It strikes her again just how much taller he is than her, especially when she's in stocking feet and he still has his dress shoes on. He reaches for her waist, unfolding the support garment flat, unfurling her dress until it's around her ankles again.

He takes her into his arms; she rights his trousers before embracing him about the waist. He kisses the hair at her temple. He says low in his throat, his breath still uneven from his efforts, "You are a very bad influence on me, miss."

She smirks and leads him upstairs.

………

It's about three in the morning when she sits bolt upright in bed, remembering the lacy pants have been left behind. 

_The End._


End file.
